“Yes.” There was no hesitation in Morely’s answer. He dared not hesitate!
“Wha’ can I do? M’sieu Eng-leesh ’ave bought my team and sled before you come.” Jacques spread his hand despairingly.
“And I’ll keep them. Put up your hands while you explain to me why you’re wearing a uniform of the service and passing yourself off as Sergeant Hardy! I know Hardy. Give an account of yourself. Who are you?”
The words came like a shot.
Morely gazed from a pair of inexorable eyes to the blue barrel of English’s gun.
With the motion of a cougar, so swift it was, Morely ducked, sprang at English. An upward thrust and the gun clattered to the floor.
Jacques, wide-eyed, moved to a corner, watching the two men as they grappled. He had not understood those few swift words of English’s.
The men, their arms gripped around each other, rolled over and over, each seeking an opening. Finally English tore an arm loose. His great hand went around Morely’s throat, shutting out the air.
But not for long. As they had rolled on the floor Morely had inch by inch controlled their movements, so that he lay near the fallen revolver.
Desperately stretching an arm and long fingers, he touched the butt of the gun. His chest was rising in shallow gasps, as he attempted to breathe. There was a roar in his eardrums, a fleck of blood dropped from his nostrils.